


Dealing with People

by Kiromenanz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Curses, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Light Angst, Other characters appear but do not have major roles, Slow Burn, as slow as 15k allow, it's 99 percent romance, mention of cheap crime novels, there's only a tiny mystery, they're both very awkward in this someone help them, this isn't a Big Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26600407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiromenanz/pseuds/Kiromenanz
Summary: “This has gone on long enough,” he declared. “I refuse to allow you entry to my quarters once I’m out of here, simply for you to sit at my bedside and weep like a grieving widow for all eternity.”“What do y–,” a little sob hiccuped its way out of her throat. She took a deep breath and another tissue to pat her face dry. “What do you suggest?”Snape glared at her. “We’ll break the curse, of course, Granger.”In which Hermione gets cursed, Snape has to deal with it, and others look on in various states of amusement.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 46
Kudos: 199





	1. A Box of Tissues & a Room for Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to AmiMendal for being a wonderful beta and helping me beat this into shape. Please go check them out!  
> Also thanks to the people on the discord server for being generally lovely and supportive <3
> 
> This is my first finished SS/HG fic, so I'm very excited! It's fully written and consists of three chapters in total. Some of it still needs some editing, so I'll post the rest as soon as I can. 
> 
> Hermione is 18 before anything of significance happens, rated Teen for cursing (not the magical kind) and ever so slight mentions of naughtytimes. No major trigger warnings as per my knowledge, but please let me know if you think I should warn for something. Hope you enjoy!

_It’s better to feel pain than nothing at all._

_The opposite of love is indifference._

The Lumineers, Stubborn Love

_If he goes to sleep peacefully knowing that_

_your heart is hurt, beware of him._

Jyoti Patel

“Will you stop crying anytime soon, perhaps? This is highly uncomfortable to witness.”

Hermione sniffed, eyes wide, watery, and bloodshot. “Oh, and Merlin forbid I make you  _ uncomfortable.  _ I happen to be going through something here!”

Snape shifted in his seat and glared at the stack of essays  teetering on his desk, which shook with the slight motion. Even as Voldemort seemed to loom larger on the horizon with every passing day, he assigned them at least one essay a week. “Can you, for once, go through something somewhere I am not?”

Hermione weakly slapped her palm on his desk. “You know damn well I can’t! I’m giving my best here!”

Snape sniffed and refrained from a rebuke, which was as much of an allowance as she was going to get. Hermione focused back on trying to get her tears under control. It was proving … difficult, to say the least. The large, unadorned clock standing in the corner of his office had rung in 9 pm be fore her cheeks had a chance to dry . 

With a small  _ plop,  _ a box of tissues appeared before her. She cleaned her face and nose as best she could and vanished the resulting rubbish. 

The chair scratched noisily across the dungeon floor when she finally stood up. Snape didn’t look up. She hadn’t expected him to, really, except – well, maybe she’d expected  _ something _ . 

“I’ll see you next week then,” she said, shifting on her feet awkwardly. 

“I can hardly wait.”

Next week, Hermione found herself bursting out laughing the moment she entered the room. Snape, currently busy re-shelving his supplies, dropped a jar of kelpie fins. They wriggled across the floor in their strange, bluish jelly-like liquid and Hermione found herself laughing even harder. 

“Ten points from Gryffindor!” he barked, “Next time, you will at least warn me that you are coming, you insolent chit!” He crouched down and began levitating the wings carefully, returning them to their jar.

Hermione found that tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her face hurt, but she couldn’t stop giggling. “I could hardly control it!”

Snape did not dignify that with an answer. Hermione tried to stifle her laughter but failed miserably. She made her way towards him and crouched down to help. It was also possible that her legs had started giving in from the belly-deep laughter that was shaking her, but since nobody was asking, she didn’t need to admit to that. 

Carefully, she attempted to assist with the levitating. It was slow-going, as hard as she was laughing, but Snape wasn’t stopping her, so she seemed to be doing alright.

It took about an hour for her to calm down this time. When her laughter finally tapered off, her stomach hurt with it. The same customary box of tissues plopped into existence and Hermione mopped away the tears that had wet her face. 

“I assume something was funny?” Snape asked into the silence. Hermione tried to swallow air against the persistent hiccups the laughter had left her with. She hiccuped awkwardly into the quiet, then tried to sit up to at least  _ look  _ the part of the prefect she was supposed to be.

Not that Snape was looking, anyhow. 

“The whole Weasley clan somehow decided they wanted to know if the curse extended to laughter, too. I’ve been subjected to all sorts of jokes all week. Most were  _ horrific. _ ”

Snape lifted an eyebrow, but she could see he was already losing interest in this conversation. “Yet, here I am, obligated to brew another jar of aquatic containment solution in my free afternoon.”

“Well,” Hermione defended herself, already grabbing her bag and making to leave, “sometimes, the bad jokes are the funniest.”

Snape turned away and slashed viciously at an essay with his quill, as he was wont to do. “Then I hope someone, somewhere, is getting a good long laugh out of this.”

Things were particularly bad after Voldemort’s defeat. For a second, Hermione felt the very dim, distant knowledge that the prospect of Snape dead should scare her. It was unreachable as if shut away in a fridge, only to be felt out by her logical thinking. She  _ should  _ be afraid. She would be, probably, if she could.  She knew what kind of life awaited her without his presence, knew that without Severus Snape, she would remain an emotionless shell for a long time. Possibly forever. And yet, she felt no fear.

Maybe she never would again.

When Snape got delivered to the hospital wing, security protocols in place all around him, Professor McGonagall having stationed multiple house elves to keep any threat away from the ailing man, Hermione knew she ought to be relieved. It took days until Harry came to her, out of breath, hands on his knees. 

“Did you run here?” she asked dispassionately, then immediately wondered why she even pretended to care. 

“He’s awake,” Harry panted, “Snape’s awake. C’mon.”

Ron immediately threw down his book on  _ 1001 Fascinating Quidditch Feints _ . “Oh thank Merlin’s underpants, you’re starting to creep me out, Mione.”

They frog-marched her to the hospital wing. Her eyes met Snape’s black ones, which were dull with exhaustion, and the tears came as if  accioed . 

She heard Harry sigh in relief. 

“For God’s sake, Potter,” Snape griped, “will you not grant me a single day of reprieve before I am to be assaulted with Granger’s wailing?”

Hermione didn’t hear Harry’s reply. She was all but weeping, her knees giving way under the force of her grief. Ron and Harry carefully maneuvered her into the stuffed tartan chair Professor McGonagall must have left at Snape’s bedside. Snape cursed about intrusive Gryffindors in language so colourful that Hermione would have blushed under different circumstances. 

He did conjure the tissue box, though.

They settled into a sort of routine preceded by a process of trial and error. What if Snape was unconscious? What if he was asleep? What if he was in a different room when the door was open? What if it was shut?

The answers were: It didn’t work (he’d overworked himself and promptly received a tongue-lashing from Pomfrey); it worked, but she woke him up if she was having a lot of things to work through and couldn’t keep quiet; it worked, if he wasn’t out of the range of about 20 yards; and see previous.

As a result, Hermione began to regularly sneak off to the hospital wing to have a good cry. 

It felt strange at first, but with time, she got almost used to it. The tissue box on Snape’s nightstand became a permanent installment. Madame Pomfrey added a second glass to the silver tray resting on the nightstand, so Hermione could have a glass of ice-cold water when she’d cried herself out. After a few nights of this, headache relief potions were added to the assortment resting in Snape’s nightstand drawer. 

For Hermione, it could have gone on like this for quite a while. Of course, the arrangement kind of depended on Snape being in the hospital wing forever, which he was not. She had yet to see a wound magic could not heal if treated fast enough.

One night, while she was thinking about Remus Lupin and little Teddy and Tonks, and then Harry, and then her parents, Snape cracked open a dark eye. Then the second one.

“This has gone on long enough,” he declared. “I refuse to allow you entry to my quarters once I’m out of here, simply for you to sit at my bedside and weep like a grieving widow for all eternity.”

Somehow, that startled Hermione into silence. She blushed. 

“What do y–,” a little sob hiccuped its way out of her throat. She took a deep breath and another tissue to pat her face dry. “What do you suggest?”

Snape sighed and closed his eyes. “Since no one else seems to feel this is within their jurisdiction, all that seems left to me is to do the obvious.”

Hermione blinked. “What’s the obvious? Sir.”

Snape glared at her. He seemed more offended that she suddenly remembered to be respectful than he had been that she’d forgotten it over all those nights of weeping. “We’ll break the curse, of course, Granger.”

“But we tried. Professor McGonagall and I, we did, and we asked Professor Flitwick–”

Snape waved all of them away with a negligent movement of his hand. “You did not ask me. You’ll see that you should have.”

_ I’ll prove it to you,  _ he wasn’t saying, but Hermione felt like he wanted to.  _ Why _ was a mystery to her, but honestly, if he could find a way out of this mess, she’d throw in her lot with him wholeheartedly. And in the end, until Hogwarts was rebuilt, what else could they do?

They began only a few days later. Hermione, being nothing if not thorough, arrived at his office with a veritable mountain of books, scrolls, and notes in her arms. 

“I did some research,” she said, feeling hope well up within her. She hadn’t felt hope in so long, it took away her breath for a second and her mountain of knowledge wobbled. 

Snape arrived at her side, seemingly out of nowhere, and levitated the whole thing out of her hands. “Colour me surprised,” he droned. His voice was still a little rough from the bite, but not incredibly so. Hermione was surprised, then chided herself for noticing at all.

“I don’t know what you think you found that I would not be able to locate, but we shall see.”

Hermione bit down on her tongue to hold back a comment. She was dependent on his grace, after all, limited as it may be.

They began to meet regularly for research. It was slow-going, broken only by Hermione’s floods of emotion, which she had to get out of the way before they could even begin reading. Most of the other students were slowly going home, making plans for the future. Funerals were taking place. Each day, they were moving closer to something similar to a new normal, and the whole experience was unsettling. 

One day, while she was sobbing her way through  _ A Treatise on Uncommon Curses  _ (she’d had a row of nightmares the previous nights), Snape slammed down the book he’d been sticking his nose into.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, “How are we supposed to get any work done with you weeping like Myrtle through half the process.”

Hermione sniffed and took from her trusted tissue box. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Snape’s lips curled downwards. He looked, all in all, as if someone was forcing him to do something against his will, and not like a man who was suggesting the whole thing himself. “You’ll come by more often. Drain the whole…  _ feelings _ business more frequently, so you can focus better on specific working days.”

Hermione blinked, tears dislodged by the movement and falling onto the  _ Treatise.  _ Cursing, she spelled them away quickly. “When?”

Snape looked away as if the business was concluded and he had no further interest in it. “Mondays shall serve well. We will extend to Wednesdays if needed.”

Together with their already set Fridays, that left her with at least two, if not three Snape-days a week. Somehow, the prospect was not as daunting as it should have been, even if it was surprising.

Next to her tissue box, a box of chocolate truffles popped into existence. It was black with golden and silver ornaments imprinted on the sleek cardboard. It looked expensive. Hermione stared at it. 

“The Hea– Alb– People say that sort of thing is supposed to help,” Snape said, never looking up.

Hermione watched her hands tentatively extend towards the box. They shook but did not make contact. 

“Eat,” Snape snapped. “They will not bite.”

They didn’t. They were delicious. Hermione spent a good portion of her reading time staring at Snape through her lashes, the taste of expensive chocolate on her tongue.

The first Monday was nerve-wracking. Hermione paced up and down, up and down before Snape’s door, suddenly nervous. The fact that she _could_ be nervous meant that he was just beyond that door, which only served to make her even more nervous. 

At around her fifteenth pace, Snape yanked open the door.

“As much as I am in favour of you getting out all those annoying feelings where I do not have to bear witness to it,” he snarled, “I would appreciate it if you would not set off my visitor charm seven times a minute.”

Hermione flushed and muttered an apology. He sent her inside. 

His sitting room seemed comfortable. It did not hold the desk his study did, but there were small tables distributed around the room, stacked with towers of parchments, journals, and books. 

Snape told her to sit down in one of the chairs by the fire. She did; they were worn, black chintz, and she sunk into hers like one sunk into an embrace. 

Snape levitated a tea set onto a tray and took a seat opposite her. He fixed himself a cup of tea, then sent the tray her way. With a flick of a wrist, he opened up a journal. “Do your worst then,” he said, the very picture of nonchalance. He was obviously trying very hard to make sure she knew he did not care about her emotions one way or another.

Strangely, now that she had his permission to let out her feelings, she found that she felt rather calm. Perhaps it was because she had let out all that anxiety while pacing in front of his office. She found herself watching him as he turned his pages like clockwork. His hair was falling into his face and he kept flicking it out of his eyes with an impatient movement. 

_ Page turn. Silence. Page turn. Silence. Hair flick. Page turn.  _

When he sent her away, she had counted seventeen hair flicks. It made her feel some type of way, but the feeling slipped out of her fingers before she could classify it. 

That was how the weeks went by: Snape would send her into his sitting room – the classroom destroyed as it was after the battle and his office being draughty and reserved for research – with an impatient comment. Hermione would stop her nervous pacing and do as bid. She would receive tea, prepared the way she liked it from the third meeting onwards, and be provided with tissues and different expensive chocolates each week. No matter how many sweets she left behind in the box, it was replaced the next time she visited. She believed that Snape ate what she had left over. 

After that first day, she brought along a book. A novel, most nights, considering she spent every other free minute either helping restore the castle or making her way through the old tomes she and Snape were trudging through to find some sort of solution for her… situation. These nights were the only time she had to enjoy a good story properly.

The first time he saw it, Snape looked at her book and sniffed. “Muggle, I suppose?”

“So?” she shot back before remembering who she was talking to, “Muggles can’t write a decent murder mystery?”

Snape just shrugged and went back to his journal. Hermione didn’t pursue the point.

They spent most of their time in silence. Sometimes Hermione would chuckle or drop a few tears on her novel, and Snape was content to ignore her. He kept up his routine –  _ page turn, silence, page turn, hair toss, page turn.  _

Hermione kept count of the hair tosses at each meeting. Fifteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Twenty-three. Twenty. Twenty-four. 

On one particular night when Snape seemed to forget to throw her out, thirty-seven. 

And every night, like clockwork, that peculiar emotion eluded her when she closed the door behind her. 

Sometimes, Hermione preferred her usual state to the way she was in Snape’s company. When the wall was down, she felt like she could see the world more clearly. There was none of that spider web-like stickiness of her feelings involved, no chance of it pushing her this way or that. Her feet were steadier under her, her eyes sharper. 

Her friends did not agree. 

“I do hate you when you’re like this,” Ron told her one night. She had forgotten time in the library and found him crying in front of the common room fire. She wondered, sometimes, why he spent so much time in Hogwarts. She’d assumed he might prefer the Burrow, as Harry did. 

“Like what?” she asked. She could tell he wanted her attention, and as his girlfriend, it was her duty to give it to him. These days, a lot of her relationships seemed to depend on her  _ knowing  _ she should care about something and making herself affect that impression. It was hard work and sometimes, she wondered why she bothered. 

“Cold like that!” Ron exclaimed. His voice was growing louder. “Like you don’t give a damn about any of this! Fred is  _ dead,  _ Hermione, and you stand there like you don’t give a fuck!”

Hermione was at loss for words. “I do care, you know that.”  _ In theory.  _

Ron huffed. “You say that, and you look at me like I’m disgusting. Does it disgust you to see me cry?”

“Of course not.”

Ron struggled to his feet and wiped off his tears with a careless gesture. “Of course it doesn’t. You don’t care one way or another. I’m patient Hermione, but this is hard. I wish my girlfriend would care to support me in all this.”

Hermione grasped her bookbag. She would cry at Snape the next time she saw him, she knew that. For a strange moment, she almost wished it was Snape-day yet, but wishes were slippery things, and they evaded her like all such emotional notions did these days. “I support you.”

Ron looked tired suddenly. He tossed a crumpled ball of parchment someone had left by the fire into the flames and watched it burn. “You try, I know you do. It doesn’t feel good, though, when I know you don’t mean it. And I can hardly join you at Snape’s now, can I?  _ Hey Sir, I know you hate me, but I haven’t seen a genuine emotion out of my girlfriend in weeks, mind if I tag along so we can have some couple-time? _ ” He laughed, but it sounded empty.

“I don’t think he would agree to that,” Hermione said. “But I can ask?”

Ron ruffled his hair with an impatient gesture. “No. No, it’s fine. You keep – you keep doing what you’ve been doing. I’ll just– maybe I’ll have to think about a different solution. I don’t think this thing with us is working.”

Hermione thought she would cry about that, too. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Ron stared at her for a long while. He was pale, and the rings beneath his eyes were dark, a darker blue than the irises themselves. Hermione waited for the racing heart that should come. It didn’t. “I’m going to bed,” he said.

“Good night.”

She didn’t watch him go up the stairs. Instead, she settled down with her notes. 

The next time she approached Snape’s rooms, her vision was blurry by the time she reached the door. She didn’t knock. Snape had ranted at her recently, repeatedly, about how annoying it was to have to interrupt what he’d been doing simply to let her in when she could bloody well operate a door herself. 

She let herself in. The sitting room was as it always was. Her tears were blurring everything so badly, she mistook the crouching Snape for a shadow for a good second. When he heard her, the shadow jerked. 

“No, don’t step on the–”  _ Crunch.  _ She felt something breaking beneath her heel, and it was the last straw.

Sighing, the Snape-shadow righted himself and brushed off his hands on his robe. “Oh well, it was a hideous cup anyway.”

Hermione’s tears cascaded down her face. “I’M SORRY,” she heard herself wail. Her knees gave way and she crouched down. 

“Granger, wait, there’s shards–”

With a  _ thump,  _ Hermione landed on her behind. She felt like a child, throwing a tantrum as she was, but she couldn’t help it.  _ You stand there like you don’t give a fuck,  _ Ron yelled in her head. She could feel the physical pain of it, of all their losses,  _ Fred, wonderful Fred,  _ and Ron looking at her like she’d betrayed him. 

The Snape-shadow was wafting around in front of her indecisively. “Miss Granger, what–”

“I’m sorry for breaking your cup,” Hermione sobbed into her sleeve, “I’m sorry I’m like this, but I can’t h-help it! I didn’t  _ choose  _ this, I know it’s exhausting, and Ron suffers from it, from how cold I am, and I know Harry does, and the other day, I found Lu-Luna in the middle of a–a panic at-attack and I told her to mo-move because she was blocking the doorway and I don’t  _ mean  _ to and then I come to you and I disrupt your evenings and take o-over all your time and cry over your floor and break your cup and I–” 

“Christ, Granger, get a hold of yourself, you’re hyperventilating.”

She was, she realised distantly.  _ That _ was the pain in her chest. But the sobs kept coming and what was she supposed to do? It was an avalanche and she was buried. 

Someone was touching her arms and Hermione flinched so hard she almost got knocked backwards. 

“Merlin, it’s just me, girl, take it, you’re soiling your robes.”

A handkerchief was being pressed into her hands. It smelled faintly of potions, and Hermione buried her face in it. She felt hollow, like she was sobbing into a tin can, except the tin can was her chest. She wondered if her lungs and heart and emotions could atrophy like muscles, if her failure to feel on all other days robbed her of any capacity to do so properly on Snape-days. She wondered whether she’d become a monster, an apathetic robot in the skin of a person. Was this how she would always be now, unfeeling, unsympathetic, a constant burden to her friends?

She suddenly realised Snape was speaking, or more accurately, murmuring. “There there,” she heard him mutter, “Breathe, Granger.”

Hermione tried to catch some air. It was an aborted, jerky breath, and it left her feeling a little like she’d just resurfaced from the lake. 

Her vision was clearing, slowly, even though her eyes were still watering and tears were running hot and cold over her cheeks. Belatedly, she thought to wipe at her face with the handkerchief he had provided. 

Snape’s face came into focus in front of her, frowning heavily. When their eyes met, the frown relaxed a little. He exhaled and leant back. There was a crunching noise, and he vanished the remnants of the teacup with an impatient wave of his wand.

“What on earth possessed you? Did you have some sort of… dispute with your little friends?”

Her sobs had tapered off into slight, continual things. She sniffed into the half-soaked handkerchief. “Something like that.”

Snape said nothing, but he also didn’t move. 

Hermione’s gaze slid past him, into the fire. She remembered Ron burning someone’s parchment, and her heart felt heavy. “Sometimes when I’m here, I wish I didn’t have to leave. It’s strange how I can feel so safe in the only place where I should feel troubled, isn’t it?” 

Snape didn’t make any noise. Hermione sniffed as the fire spluttered. After a few more seconds of silence, she remembered the handkerchief and delicately patted at her nose. “It’s probably because nobody would dare come in here and make me feel things while you’re here. But that’s not the crux, is it? As nice as your rooms and company are–” Snape snorted but she ignored him, “-it’s not why I come, not really.”

She dared a look over at Snape. He was watching her with an unreadable expression.

“Sometimes, when we have broken legs, we need crutches,” he said. Finally, he stood up with a single fluid movement. “There is no shame in that.”

Hermione sat there for a moment longer, feeling the way her heavy limbs seemed to sink into the stone floor. “But I’m putting you out. Days like today. It must be exhausting.”

Snape turned away to fix them some tea. “Come see me next Wednesday, too. I don’t think Mondays are enough.”

That night, Hermione forgot to count the hair tosses after thirty-five. It was she who had taken the initiative to end the evening. She wondered whether he’d have thrown her out at all. As she came closer to the Gryffindor common room, she realised that she didn’t care either way. 

“I wrote you a letter,” she told Ron one night.  _ Letter for Ron,  _ the envelope said,  _ give at earliest convenience!  _

Ron, engrossed in a game of chess with Nearly Headless Nick, blinked at her before he extended his hand. “Thank you.” 

Hermione smiled at him. They both knew it was perfunctory. For a second, she wondered why she bothered, but that way lay madness. 

She left Ron to read the letter in peace. 

The next time she came by Snape’s sitting room, she brought him chocolates. As she approached his door, her hands suddenly became sweaty. 

_ Chocolates, Hermione? What the hell were you thinking, he’s not a maiden you’re trying to sweep off her feet, he’ll laugh at you!  _

Hermione found herself staring at the door. The sweet box in her hands shook and she adjusted her grip on it. 

Well. She was here now, and anyway, if her logical-self thought this was a good idea, it must have been, somehow? 

The door swung open in front of her. “For God’s sake girl, why do you  _ dawdle  _ so much.”

Snape was glaring at her. He was also wearing a shirt. Not that he didn’t _usually_ wear a shirt – what a thought, though that made her think that surely, he was topless _sometimes._ He had to be, at least to change and shower, didn’t he? That meant Snape sometimes had his _chest_ exposed and–

“Granger? Are you … present?”

Hermione shook her head viciously and pushed past him. Snape moved to the side and lifted an eyebrow. “By all means, come in.”

Inside, everything looked as it always did. Hermione felt herself relaxing, then immediately tensed up. Since when was Snape’s presence  _ relaxing _ ? 

Snape turned around to close the door and Hermione fiddled with something in her hands. It was the latch on the chocolate box. Before she could fret even more about it, she thrust it at Snape with both hands. 

“Here,” she said belatedly. He turned around to find her proffering the box like a sacrifice.

He didn’t take it. Instead, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. The shirtsleeves were rolled up, which left Hermione staring at his exposed forearms. “Are you well, girl?”

Hermione looked back at his face. She tried to relax her stance and dropped a hand. “Yes.”

His dark eyes searched her face. Something was going on in her stomach.

“Are you going to take them or not?”

Snape took them, still studying her. “Would it kill you to call me ‘sir’ sometimes?”

“Sorry, sir.”

He snorted and opened the box. They were whiskey chocolate truffles. She had noticed his extensive spirits collection and assumed. As he looked down into the box, for some reason, she found herself nervous.

“ Impressive s election. What do you want?”

Hermione frowned. “What?”

Snape carefully shut the box. “This seems like a bribe.”

Somehow, his exasperating reaction relaxed her. She found herself letting out a small  _ tsk _ before she could help it. “Did you never get a gift, just because? You’re already offering up three days in your week for me, what else could I be asking for?”

Snape looked down at the box. “So what is this?”

Suddenly nervous again, Hermione moved to her customary chair and poured them both some tea. It was a deviation from their usual routine, and that thought made her nervous again. The teapot in her hand shook. She steadied it by sheer force of will.

“Just a ‘thank you’. It’s not a big thing.” She bit her lip and looked up. He was still standing by the door. “You do a lot for me,” she added. “I appreciate it.”

Snape was staring. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Not like I have much else to do.”

He swept towards his chair. “If we’re quite finished with the hysterics – I take lemon in my tea.”

He burrowed his nose deeper in his books than before that evening. He did eat the chocolates, though, only one or two, looking pensive all the while. 

Hermione found herself smiling a lot that night. He didn’t look up at all, nose buried deep in his book, reaching for his chocolates blindly. It was just as well, she figured. Otherwise, she was sure he’d have had something to say about her looking like she’d inhaled a bag full of  staghorn spores. 


	2. Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while. The last chapter is ready and will probably be posted tomorrow :). 
> 
> Thank you again for the amazing Ami, and also to Morbidmuch, who encouraged me massively with this story <3\. I love you two!

_Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle,_  
 _And the life of the candle will not be shortened._  
 _Happiness never decreases by being shared._   
The Teachings of Buddha  
  


Ron seemed to appreciate the letter. He caught her when she was just coming from lunch, navigating the staircases by instinct and the little she saw of them over the edges of her book. 

Before she could say much, he’d caught her in a hug. “I know you don’t feel it right now,” he muttered into her hair, “but that’s okay. Thanks for the letter, it helped.”

Was he crying into her hair? She wondered whether tears dried out the cells. Should she ask Snape to brew her a haircare potion? 

Ron pulled back and patted at his face. He gave her a wobbly smile, and she smiled back, because she should. “I love you too, Mione, okay? But you’re right, I think. Maybe right now, things should be different.” 

He patted her shoulder affectionately. “I didn’t mean to keep you from your book. Just wanted to tell you I’ve talked to Mum and Dad, and I’ll be going back to the Burrow for a bit. I’m sorry I can’t say goodbye during Emotions Hour.”

“I’ll write to you.”

His grin was charming and boyish, even if his eyes were sad. But he seemed without those shards and jagged edges she’d seen in him for weeks now. “I’ll try my best not to be a shoddy pen pal.”

Had it been Emotions Hour, Hermione probably would have laughed. As it was, she had to force inflection into her voice. “You do that.”

It was bad timing, in a way. The next Snape-day was a study session. They had migrated slowly but surely into his sitting room, only moving to the office if they needed more room to work. She had brought a new tome that might be helpful, but her first destination as the door fell shut behind her was the box of tissues. They had been permanently moved to the window sill, since her need for them had become less pressing but not nonexistent. She waved at a Grindylow while she blew her nose. It gave her the two-fingered salute. 

Next to the box of tissues sat a single elegant cardboard box. When Hermione reached for them tentatively, Snape’s voice drifted over from where he sat with his face hidden in _Potions Quarterly_. 

“Those are my chocolates.” 

Quickly, Hermione hid the evidence of her thievery. The warmth of the alcohol and the chocolate spread through her. The number of chocolate truffles was slowly decreasing, she noticed, but Snape didn’t seem to be in a hurry. 

“I’ll buy you new ones.”

Snape sighed and put away the journal. “Have you cried yourself out, or do you need to be a little more insolent to cheer yourself up?”

Hermione found herself smirking. “I’m sure some insolence would help improve my mood very much, Sir.” 

Snape rolled his eyes and swept out of the room. “Come along, I found a potion that might work.” Hermione’s eyes watched his robes waft around a corner. Her fingers crept towards the box on the window sill. “And _hands off my chocolates_.”

She snatched her hand back and stuck out her tongue at the empty door frame.

In retrospect, to eat more chocolates would have been a dreadful waste. The experimental potion had her vomiting up all of her dinner. It was a shame. The butternut squash mash had been a revelation.

Snape had the grace to look slightly chagrined as he held back her hair. “I assume the Syrup of Hellebore might have been a little overkill.”

Hermione sat back onto the cold stone floor and wiped her mouth. “ _You think_?”

He tugged at her hair slightly in reproach. “No need to be sassy. I’m still helping you out of the goodness of my heart.”

Hermione’s retort to that was cut off by another wave of nausea. 

Without Ron and Harry, Hogwarts felt empty. 

There were others, of course. They roamed the halls like so many billiard balls, having received the first jolting hit and now rolling around aimlessly before they either ran out of momentum or crashed into a wall. Some spent their days cautiously beginning the rebuilding effort, but since they were still in the process of organising manpower for that particular project, it was slow-going. Most just haunted the halls or sat around in small groups, giving their best to fill the days.

Hermione avoided them, mostly. It left her staring at the canopy of her bed more often than not. She took to walking the castle grounds at all hours of the night. 

“You could go home,” Professor McGonnagal suggested to her one Friday. “Or to the Burrow. The rebuilding won’t get underway properly until at least next month. Hogwarts welcomes you, of course, but nevertheless. There is no reason for a witch of your age to remain in isolation here.”

She had a point. Everyone was busy, either wrestling their own demons or making slow progress in putting things back to rights. Hermione didn’t point out that she was hardly lonely – she spent three days a week with Snape. Ron and Harry wrote. And no one would be home to receive her anyhow. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Instead, she got up earlier the next day to catch Snape at the breakfast table. He glared at her. 

“Am I to be subjected to your presence at every hour of the day?”

She smiled at him and passed him the coffee. He took it, grumbling, and received a chuckling eye roll from Professor Sprout. He glared at her and Hermione watched her be visibly cowed, before she seemed to remember that there was no need for that sort of thing anymore and she patted Snape’s arm. Discomfited, Snape sipped his coffee. 

“Is there a specific reason why you have decided the teacher’s table at 6:30 is the place to be?” Snape asked, sounding annoyed but making no move to actually chase her away. 

“I wanted to reply to some letters,” Hermione said and started to spread some butter on her croissant. It was perfectly flaky, and she felt a flash of contentment push aside the vague sadness at not having a home to return to. 

Snape sniffed. “Of course. I am simply a means to an end.” 

Hermione blinked at him over her croissant. The flakes gently sailed down to drape over her robe. She shook them away absentmindedly. “Would you rather I came to you because I missed your company?”

There was a moment of silence. With a loud noise, Snape’s chair was pushed back and he swept up in a whirl of robes. “I have potions to attend to.” Before she could think of a reply, he was stalking out of the hall. 

His sudden departure left Hermione and Professor Sprout staring at each other with wide eyes over his abandoned coffee cup.

“Well,” Professor Sprout said after a while, turning away to pour a generous measure of milk into her tea. “ _That_ is none of my business.”

Hermione’s stomach felt a little like it was home to a nest of newborn puppies and they were falling over each other blindly. She nibbled the rest of her croissant in contemplative silence. 

It took her a while to answer her letters to her satisfaction, since Snape had apparently made it his business to be everywhere Hermione wasn’t. She felt a little crazed, chasing him as she was all over the castle with her letters in her hand. 

At some point, she found him decimating a doxy nest in Professor Flitwick’s office. 

“Really, Severus–” Professor Flitwick protested, standing on top of his desk. He was apparently re-charming his ceiling to mirror the room’s occupants. Hermione stared at her distorted reflection, which was sporting small puffs of fur and floppy dog ears, for some reason. 

“There’s no need to go through that trouble,” Professor Flitwick chittered in Snape’s general direction. “These doxies have been here longer than I have, we have arranged ourselves with each other.”

Snape ignored him, blasting a curse at an errant doxy. Hermione stepped neatly to the side. Both curse and creature bypassed her. Snape was scowling in her general direction without meeting her eyes. 

“How may I help you, Miss Granger?” Professor Flitwick asked, frowning at his own reflection in the ceiling-mirror. It was equipped with what looked like butterfly wings. He stabbed at it with his wand. 

“Oh,” Hermione said, “I was just looking for Sn– Professor Snape. He seems to be avoiding me.”

That made Snape look at her, even if his gaze seemed to be fixed somewhere in the direction of her left ear. “Don’t be ridiculous, you are hardly significant enough for me to adjust my whole schedule around. I have things to do, we can’t all be as free as you.”

Hermione felt offended and relished the feeling. She was spending so much time with Snape, she was _feeling_ more often than not. It had gotten to the point where the emotional void was more disconcerting than welcome. Maybe that was why she was following Snape around like a duckling.

She decided to be the bigger person. “No need to get snippy with me, this isn’t my fault. I just want to be able to write to my friends.”

“Well, why did you have to have _friends_ ,” Snape replied, making her feel a lot better about her own emotional maturity. He immediately looked something between constipated and stroppy, apparently having realized the stupidity of his stance himself. Hermione’s lip twitched. Snape looked even more stroppy.

“Well,” Flitwick said, standing awkwardly on top of his desk. The wings in his reflection fluttered wildly and changed color. Snape’s own reflection, Hermione noted, resembled nothing as much as a bristling cat. All that was missing was that he hissed at her. 

“In any case, I have brewing to do,” Snape sneered and righted himself. He seemed to have forgotten the runaway doxy, who was mooning him from the relative safety of a small side table. 

“You already mentioned that,” Hermione said and followed him out. Flitwick’s soft goodbye floated after them. 

“Yes,” Snape sniped back, “Consistency is the key to any excuse.” 

“Yet here you were, not brewing.”

He stopped so suddenly that she stumbled over both her feet in her attempt not to run into him. She caught herself with her hands against his back. _Muscly,_ her head informed her helpfully, _warm_. She snatched them back. 

Snape whirled around, his robes whispering across her shoes. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you must insist on forcing me to endure your presence, at least allow me a small break to shelve away that embarrassment. Come visit me _after_ lunch.”

Something very soft curled around Hermione’s chest. Confused, she rubbed it, but there was nothing there. “Alright.”

His dark eyes searched her face. “Alright.”

He swept away. Hermione stared at his retreating back for quite a while, rubbing that spot on her chest, until he turned a corner and all she was looking at was the stone wall.

She brought a new box of chocolates when she came by after lunch. This time, it was marzipan. 

Snape squinted at them suspiciously from his seat by the fire. “What are those?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Chocolates, obviously.” He glared. “Sir. To show I appreciate you independent of your capacity as the person who makes me feel things.”

She frowned, face growing warm. “I meant, – not that you make me feel things, I mean you do, but I meant as the person who gives me feelings.” No, that sounded just as bad. “I mean–”

Snape was looking at her with his eyebrows lifted. “For Merlin’s sake Granger, stop before you cause us both more pain from the awkwardness of this.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

He was looking at her, studying her. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days. Finally, he said, “Are you going to bring over those chocolates and come answer your blasted letters or do you intend to stand aimlessly in the middle of my sitting room all day?”

Hermione scrambled towards her armchair, sinking into it gratefully. Snape levitated over a simple wooden board, polished and cut to fit well onto a lap, with a little indent to put an inkwell in. “Try not to spill ink on my cushions.” 

_Dear Hermione,_

_I don’t know when you’ll get to read this letter._ _I guess you’re not spending every second with Sna_ _It’s not pressing, anyway, just wanted to tell you I arrived at the Burrow, and it’s as you could expect here._ _Everyone’s sad because of_ _The general mood is a bit down, but it’s good for me to be here anyways._

_Hope you’re good at Hogwarts too,_

_Love_ _you,_ _Ron_

_Dear Hermione,_

_Ron seems to be doing well. I was a little surprised to find him at the Burrow without you, but he explained it to me. I was sorry to hear you guys decided to just be friends, but I guess you know what works best for you, and I support you in everything. Ron says you’re spending a lot of time with Snape, and I hope that’s helping. Are you guys any closer to finding a solution for the curse?_

_Come by to visit us soon. We miss you,_

_Ginny sends her love,_

_Harry_

_Dear Hermione,_

_Sorry to hear about you and Ron, but I hope you’re both happier now. I also hope you’re not feeling too awkward about him, because I’m writing to beg you to come visit us at the Burrow. I’m losing my mind a little here. I love Quidditch, I_ do _(thinking about making it a career, did Harry tell you?), but they keep playing it_ all the time. _I think it’s some sort of coping strategy? Do you think that’s a thing? Anyway, I’m up for one or two Quidditch matches a day, they’re good training, but these guys play as long as the sun is up. It’s either that, or snogging, or talking about Quidditch, or talking about snogging._

_I need someone here who’s gonna clip them round the ears, I swear. I tried, but it’s a bit difficult, considering I enjoy both things (snogging and Quidditch, I mean, not the ear-clipping, though to be honest I enjoy that sometimes, too) and they know it. Also, Mum told me off for threatening to Bat-Bogey them. People are a bit sensitive about hexes in the household, as I’m sure you’ll understand._

_I hope you’re doing well, of course. Any progress on the feeling things front yet?_

_Ginny_

_***_

_Dear Ron,_

_Thank you for checking in. I’m well – writing this_ _with Snape in the_ _with feelings, currently, just so you know. I’m a bit sad that_ _you_ _the two of you_ _you aren’t here, but I know we made the best decision. I’m glad to hear that the Burrow agrees with you. I’m sorry the general mood is heavy, even if it’s no wonder, of course._

_Do you think I could come visit, in case the curse is resolved?_

_Love, Hermione_

_Dear Harry,_

_We’re working on the curse, currently._ _Sn_ _Professor Snape is trying out some potions, but so far no results. I’m confident we can do it soon, though. If not Professor Snape, then who?_

_Regarding the thing with Ron: it was a difficult decision, but I think it was best. I didn’t want him to suffer more than he had to, considering the curse, and in all honesty, we both agreed that something changed after the war. We need different things. There’s no shame in that though._

_I’ll try to visit soon. I’d prefer to do it once the curse is broken, but I will see what I can do._

_Send Ginny my love, I heard she wanted to become a professional Quidditch player? That’s great! I hope you two find something to talk about besides Quidditch, though, even if that might be too much to hope for. I imagine it gets quite dull with time._

_Hope to see you soon,_

_Love, Hermione_

_Dear Ginny,_

_Oh my, there truly must be an unbearable amount of Quidditch-talk at your house for you to take up a quill and write to me. I am not sure what I could do about it, but I’ll see about visiting soon. I could very well imagine it to be a coping strategy, in which case, I’d feel a little bad depriving them of it. If it helps, that’s good, right?_

_How are you holding up apart from that? Is it strange to be back home?_

_I’m feeling things alright, thank you very much for asking, however the curse is still very much in place and my feelings only show up wherever Professor Snape does. We have settled in a sort of routine and it works alright, I think, but I’m optimistic that we will find a cure soon._

_Love, Hermione_

_***_

When Hermione looked up, she found Snape in the middle of levitating a praline into his mouth wandlessly, lips open unflatteringly to allow it access. At her look, he slammed his jaw shut. The sweet bumped against his lips fruitlessly and fell into his lap.

“Not a word,” he said, and went back to his reading. Hermione suppressed a giggle. 

She expected him to throw her out or ignore her for the rest of her stay, but he did neither. When she put away her written letters and got out a muggle novel ( _Death at the Post Office,_ this time), he simply glanced up at her.

“I assume the content of the letters was to your satisfaction?”

Smiling, Hermione thumbed to the part of the book where she had left off and cuddled more deeply into her armchair. “They aren’t Shakespeare,” she said, “but they’re sweet. I like hearing from them.”

“Despite the – unfortunate end to your equally unfortunate relations with Mister Weasley?”

That made her look up. Snape was demonstratively looking down at his book. “It was nice while it lasted,” she said carefully, “but it was alright that it didn’t last longer than it did.”

“Eloquent.”

“You asked.”

“A fact which you may rest assured I already regret.”

It was a signal to go back to her book, but Hermione didn’t. Snape did, and she studied him. He performed the comfortably familiar routine of _silence, page turn, hair toss, silence_ and she wondered whether he would feel comfortable enough to use a hair tie if she weren’t there. For some reason, the thought soured her mood. 

“Something interesting to see?” he murmured without looking up. A dark strand of hair slid out from behind his ear and swung in front of his eyes, glinting in the candle light. 

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. At her silence, Snape’s eyes slid upwards, peeking past his hair to focus on her. 

“I’ll bring you more chocolate, if,” she cleared her throat. Her voice felt weird, “If you like it.”

There was something in Snape’s gaze that she couldn’t make out. She stared back at him, trying to figure out what it was. It made her heart race, but he did not look very intimidating. Which was strange in itself, if she was being honest. 

Snape cleared his throat and looked down at his book. He turned a page. Just when Hermione thought he wouldn’t say anything more, he glanced up ever so briefly. “It was the mayor,” he said. For a disconcerting second, Hermione thought she had forgotten a part of the conversation. Snape nodded towards the book in her lap, hair swinging. “The murderer. It was the mayor.”

Hermione gaped. “No it wasn’t!”

There was something on Snape’s face that might almost be described as a smile, on any other person. “Try me.”

It was the mayor. God damn the man. 

Just for that, the next chocolates she ordered were chilli flavored. 

For a while, they settled into a routine. Mondays and Wednesdays for letting out emotions, which was much more painless these days. A few tears, a little laughter, but mostly, they spent the evenings reading and, more and more often, talking over tea and chocolates. 

To her absolute bafflement, Snape hummed appreciatively when he’d tried the chilli chocolate, his whole face a study in relaxed enjoyment.

“You can’t possibly like that!” Hermione exclaimed, still feeling the phantom burn on her own tongue, “Those are lethal.”

Snape looked at her with a piercing look. “Did you attempt to buy me _bad chocolate_?”

“I–”

“I thought these were to express your appreciation of my person. Did you, in fact, attempt to pull a _prank_ on me?”

Completely floundering, Hermione saw no option left except to claim that she had bought them to please Snape. He sipped his tea and stared at her as if he could see all her secrets. 

It was the tea that tipped her off. There was milk in it. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“They were too spicy for you, weren’t they?”

A small smile quirked over the rim of his teacup. “Oh, terribly. I feel a little like I just spit fire.”

She gaped in amused outrage. “I cannot believe you, you played a prank on me!”

On closer inspection, she could see that his lips and cheeks were slightly redder than usual, an observation that made her feel a little like something was crawling all over her insides, even if she didn’t know why. 

Snape turned away from her. Ignoring her scrutiny, he looked through his academic journal as if searching for a specific article. The victorious smirk remained. 

Fridays were for researching the curse, which was quickly becoming academic. Whatever they tried, it did not seem to be very fruitful. 

“This might turn out to be a longer project than I had anticipated,” Snape remarked off-handedly one evening and turned Hermione back to her natural colour with a negligent wave of his wand. 

“Is that a problem?” Hermione asked, suddenly anxious. She spent so much time in these rooms and with this man, she hardly questioned it anymore. Still, she could hardly fault him if he grew tired of it. 

Snape looked at her as if she had just suggested that Dreamless Sleep matured best when kept in a pile of dragon dung. “Do I look like I have anything better to do?”

“There’s a million things you could be doing!” Hermione objected, more heat in her words than even she herself had expected. “With a mind like yours? Teaching, research, commissions are the least you could do, you could write, publish– give lectures for the potions master’s society, even–”

Snape held up his hand. She could tell he was embarrassed, even if his face was impassive, and the knowledge that she knew him so well embarrassed her in turn. “Point made, Miss Granger. As tempting as all those options sound, I think we’d have a hard time explaining why you kept tagging along on all those wild academic adventures, wouldn’t we?”

Hermione’s face was burning. Something was happening in her chest that she could neither control nor understand.

Snape peered at her more closely. “Unless you’d rather we relocate?”

“No,” she whispered, “here is fine.”

“In that case, stand still Granger, there must be a version of that spell that _doesn’t_ turn you blue. It’s a very unflattering color on you. You look like Smurfette.”

Hermione muttered some kind of rejoinder and forced herself to calm down.

They kept meeting for breakfast, despite the fact that Hermione sought him out after lunch on their off days to write her letters, or, on days where there weren’t any letters, to deliver her newest box of chocolates. They began to stack up on the window sill like a colorful pyramid. It attracted a fair amount of attention from the inhabitants of the lake behind the glass. Sometimes, Hermione played peek-a-boo with the grindylows hiding behind the stack, and she could swear she heard them giggling, high and distorted, through the window pane.

Snape extended the wards to her. “I do have responsibilities outside this castle, you know,” despite the fact that they both knew that he hardly ever left. “It wouldn’t do us any good if your next attempt to break into my stores left you strung up by your ankles until I could conclude my business to come fetch you.”

“I _am_ a fully grown witch, you know,” Hermione said with no bite, “I can untie my own ankles.”

Somehow, his raised eyebrow flustered her. “Anyway,” she added, “there’s not much point in me coming here when you’re not there, is there? Considering why I come?”

Snape looked at her, face, deceptively blank. “Yes,” he said, “why _do_ you come here?”

_Excuse me?_ Hermione wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. His wand waved over her. She felt the gentle give of the wards, like the soft, warm water of a shower dripping down her back. 

When he was called away on ministry business a few days later, Hermione found herself taking lunch in his quarters, finishing her newest novel. It seemed like he had successfully guessed the culprit of that one, as well. She wondered how he did it. On a whim, she cast a touch-detecting charm on the book, and found his finger-prints glowing dark blue over the last few pages. 

“Cheater,” she whispered with a smile. 

When he came back, his arrival was preceded by the sound of his footsteps and a sudden onslaught of nerves and warmth somewhere along Hermione’s ribcage. He didn’t comment on her presence in his rooms, so she decided to let the thing of him reading her books pass. Tit for tat, so to speak. 

He levitated the tea set and a box of chocolates over wordlessly and settled down opposite her. 

“You had dinner?” he asked her without looking up from his newspaper. It was the _Quibbler,_ she noted with some interest. 

Hermione hummed in affirmation, caught as she was in the heart-stopping confrontation between the detective and the murderous gardener. “You?”

“They served those dreadfully dry little sandwiches at the ministry. I thought Kingsley was supposed to reform the place.”

She smiled and tucked her socked feet beneath herself. “I once saw him put ketchup on a plate of spaghetti Carbonara.”

Her quick glimpse over the edge of her book was rewarded with a look of true disgust on Snape’s face. “I see,” he drawled. “In that case, would you please hurry that career of yours along and replace him? I live in fear of our future.”

Their eyes met over their respective readings for a second, and Hermione thought of and discarded a million replies. In the end, she settled on a cool “I’m giving my best,” even though the slight shaking of her fingers and the pleased flush of her cheeks betrayed her. 

Here was the thing: 

When people called Hermione “the brightest witch of her age”, they weren’t wrong. Hermione _was_ smart, a notion shared by everyone who knew her, though whether they thought it to be a good or a bad thing varied wildly. People might call her _obnoxious_ , and honestly, oftentimes they’d be right, but nobody could call her _dumb_ or _oblivious_ without being grudgingly corrected by her contemporaries. 

Taking this fact into consideration, one could have expected Hermione to realize what was going on much sooner. One would have been disappointed. As a matter of fact, it took Hermione until one particular Thursday morning, around 4am, eleven weeks after the battle of Hogwarts, to come to a conclusion everyone else had reached quite some time ago. 

These were the puzzle pieces she finally put together on that particular sleepless morning: 

One day, Snape had simply looked at her blankly for a second after she had brought up the subject of hair ties, before saying “I hadn’t thought of it,” and conjuring one to wrap around his hair. She had felt something grow almost unpleasantly warm around her heart when she studied his profile, only one or two short strands of hair teasing his forehead. Like a fever centered in her chest, intensifying when she saw him struggle with his hair during breakfast, but refusing to put it into its ponytail. He did not hesitate to turn to the hair tie when he experienced the same problem when it was just the two of them.

Then there was the way stomach squirmed when she thought that phrase: _Just the two of them._

Her chocolates and books and even the odd sock had migrated into his sitting room. She couldn’t help but smile when she found her writing things, parchment with notes upside down, exactly where she’d left them the night before. Snape didn’t even ask her to clean them up. 

Professor Sprout had moved a seat to the side without being asked. Now, Hermione could sit next to Severus at all meals. She smiled indulgently at Hermione when she gesticulated so wildly that she accidentally knocked the poor Professor’s hat off. 

“It’s alright, dearie,” she’d said when Hermione, dreadfully sorry, had dove down to retrieve the garment. “It is quite refreshing to see the passion of the young ones.” Severus had once more disappeared in a frantic cloud of robes, muttering something about brewing. Professor Sprout had patted her arm and returned the wonky hat to her head. “He’s a bit on the shy side, your man.”

Hermione had simply blinked at Professor Sprout. It was similar to how she’d stared at the Headmistress, who had pulled Hermione aside a few days later. Severus hadn’t been there, more ministry business, so Hermione had taken a plate of potatoes and veggies along for him. “The official rebuilding will begin on Monday,” Professor McGonnagal had said, looking a tiny bit awkward. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with the two of you, but I just thought I’d inform you, in case you wanted to be a little more subtle when there’s people about.” 

Then she’d left Hermione there. Hermione had stood, steaming plate of brussel sprouts in gravy in her hands, and stared after the Professor for quite a while. “Subtle with _what,_ ” she’d asked the general air around her, and earned nothing but an amused snort from the Bloody Baron floating by.

The boys’ letters had begun to ask about Severus, first carefully, then in a manner that sounded like they were making fun of something. She replied to them as earnestly as she could, unsure what they were getting at, until one of Ginny’s letters had arrived. _Don’t mind the boys, they’re idiots,_ Ginny wrote, _they’re just teasing because this whole thing is a little strange. But honestly, Hermione, we just all want you to be happy, and none of us mind, truly. Not even Ron._ Hermione had read it over three times, drafted two letters ( _Mind what? What are you talking about?_ ) before deciding to just ignore the whole area of conversation and ask about their health instead. 

There was the way she began to spend all her time in Severus’ quarters or his vicinity, without him uttering a single word of complaint. 

When debilitating stomach cramps had kept her in bed much longer than she would otherwise be one Sunday, feeling generally miserable, there had been a sharp rap at the common room door. 

“The professor here to see you, dearie,” a little old lady portrait had called from the hallway, “the scary one, with the nose.” 

So Hermione forced herself out of bed and trudged down the stairs to find him standing, frown etched deeply on his face, outside the common room, arguing with the Fat Lady. At the sounds of her opening the portrait, he whirled around and stared accusingly at her. “You weren’t at breakfast. Or lunch.” He took a long look at her, pullover thrown hastily over her pyjamas, looking wrinkled and exhausted. “Are you ill?” He felt her forehead for a temperature, and she batted his hand away. 

“I’m fine. Just a bit of – uhm. Well, you know.” There was the air of slight embarrassment again, but he dug into the pockets of his robes with a businesslike air that would have fooled anyone who didn’t know him better. “I assumed so. Take this, lie down, you’ll have lunch shortly. Do not come down for dinner unless you feel up to it.” She had done as bid and been herded back to bed under his watchful eye. He thrust a muggle crime novel at her which he had produced from somewhere else in his robes and swept out. 

He had looked almost relieved when she’d arrived at dinner that evening, tired but painless, with a bright smile for him. He had hidden behind his hair with lightning speed and ignored her all through the meal, but thrust another potion at her before leaving. “Just in case. Don’t be a bloody martyr, Granger.”

She could feel something strange in her stomach when she thought of him. Those days he spent at the ministry were unbearably long. She sought him out more and more often, for questions about her reading, updates on her novels, academic questions they ended up debating for an hour in-between doorways until Professor Flitwick squeezed by them with a chirpy “Excuse me, thank you, you two! You know, you could sit down in a room somewhere, you could hardly make the gossip _worse_ at this point.” Both of them pretended not to hear him, although they did sit down in the staff room, since it was closer and mostly intact.

She asked him one Friday afternoon as they were brewing, matching hair ties in their hair, “Why don’t I call you ‘Severus’?” He almost dropped his ladle in his cauldron. The _clang_ echoed in the dungeon room, and a bit of the clear silver potion spilled over the side of it onto the wooden table. He hastily mopped it up with a rag. “I hardly think we could deal with that, do you?” 

They had stared at each other over their cauldrons, faces flushed, and she had muttered, “You know what, you’re right.” It had taken them both at least fifteen minutes to calm down from that conversation. The next time Professor Sprout had greeted him with a cheery “Good day, Severus, Hermione!”, they had simultaneously dropped their spoons into their potato and leek soup. 

Hermione had less occasion to use the tissue box on the windowsill. She was almost regretting this development, wondering if he’d touch her arms again if she found something to cry about. She felt ridiculous even thinking about it.

Then there was how, on that specific Thursday at 4am, about eleven weeks after the battle of Hogwarts, Hermione jerked awake with her heart racing and some kind of gentle yet exciting warmth racing along her limbs, the sight of him smiling down at her warmly, dressed in a soft t-shirt, so vividly in her mind as if it had not been a dream. 

She breathed deeply and stared at the canopy of her four-poster bed. Her heart was racing. 

Why on _earth_ was she dreaming of Severus smiling. Smiling like _that._ Dressed like– well, like he was relaxed, like he was comfortable, like he didn’t mind showing off the strong muscles of his arms and the dark hairs dusted over them like icing sugar. Similar to how he showed his arms sometimes now, when he rolled up his shirtsleeves, similar to how he sometimes smiled at her when they were joking around, or when she brought him some chocolate, or when he handed her a new bottle of expensive, heat- and stain-resistant ink, pretending it wasn’t anything much when she _knew_ that kind of ink cost at least ten galleons. Dreaming that, thinking that, feeling warm like when she realised that he didn’t complain about her intrusion of his privacy, his rooms, his whole _life_ anymore, instead simply moving things around so she fit. 

She wondered whether this meant anything. She wondered why he never objected to the things the other teachers were saying. She wondered why he had not pushed her away, that time she had spent all day trekking across the grounds, helping Hagrid collect color-changing chestnuts and had ended up resting her aching feet on the armrest of his armchair.

She wondered, and her heart raced, and finally, _finally_ , Hermione Granger connected the dots. 

Well. Some of them at least.


	3. People like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go lovely people, last chapter! I hope you like this one and it ties things together well for you. I'm not good at responding to comments consistently, but I've read every single one and your wonderful comments have made me incredibly happy. <3 Thank you so much! I hope you all have the best day, and that you are safe and happy <3
> 
> Thank you again also to Ami and MM, who are incredible, lovely and supportive and a great beta and alpha, respectively. All remaining mistakes are my own :))

_ When dealing with people, remember you are not dealing with creatures of logic, but creatures of emotion.  _   
Dale Carnegie    


  
Hermione stumbled out of her bed and threw on a dressing gown. It took her two tries to shove her feet into her fuzzy slippers, and she had to double back for her wand. 

_ I think I like Severus Snape,  _ she thought as she swept out of the dormitory, blessedly empty of inhabitants who might object to the racket she was making. She lost her slipper on the stairs, and the steps helpfully changed places so she didn’t have to run all the way up again to collect it. 

_ I think it’s more than like,  _ she thought, stumbling through the portrait hole. “Hey, missy!” the sleepy voice of the Fat Lady floated after her, “Just because school isn’t in session doesn’t mean curfew is suspended!” Hermione turned to her right and steadied herself with a hot hand on the smooth, cold bannister of the stairs.

_ I think I might be in love with him,  _ she thought and lost another slipper. She wrenched both of them off her feet and stuffed them into her robe pocket, where they pressed against the vial of bright blue pain relief he had brought her on that one Sunday.  _ Actually, properly in love.  _

She took the stairs two at a time and barrelled straight through the Grey Lady, who simply sighed in exasperated protest. The sudden flush of cold did not alleviate the hot racing of her heart. Neither did the damp, musty air of the dungeons. In her, like a tidal wave, slowly, unavoidably, a thought arose. She sped down another flight of stairs and felt it nip at her heels. She stumbled in a corridor leading to his living quarters and felt it rise to her waist. She skidded around a corner and felt it rise to her neck, the realisation soft and pleasant like a dip in the lake on a hot summer day. She stumbled to a stop in front of his quarters and felt herself covered, head to toe, in this new certainty, this precious knowledge.

_ I think he’s in love with me too.  _

And then, in the wake of her insistent knock on his door, heart racing, eyes wide, skin flushed and slightly sweaty from her run, dressing gown slipping off one shoulder, there was another thought, crashing into her like a second wave, quick and hard and unexpected. 

_ Holy shit, I’m feeling things.  _

The door opened, Severus Snape looking disheveled, grumpy and slightly off-kilter staring at her in the dim light of the flickering torches on the wall. 

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Granger, I sure hope you have a very legitimate reason to bang on my door like a lunatic at barely 4am.” His voice was scratchy from sleep, and there was a hint of stubble on his cheeks. Hermione felt exactly as discomfited about it all as she had on her four-poster bed, and the realization, impossibly, sped up her pulse even more. Any minute, she would combust. 

“I’m an idiot,” she burst out. She was vibrating a little, her hands shaking with the violence of her realization.  _ I’m feeling, I’m feeling, I’m feeling,  _ it repeated in her head, reverberating like a church bell. 

His eyebrows went up. “If  _ that  _ is what you dragged me out of bed to discuss, I would quite agree.”

Hermione waved that away with a fluttering hand and distractedly adjusted her robe. Severus’ eyes went, ever so briefly, to where her hands were, taking in her bare shoulder. Something was violently dancing in Hermione’s stomach. “May I come in?”

He still stared at her as if she might be losing it. “Can I stop you?” He moved out of the way voluntarily and she swept inside. With a sigh and a wave of his hand, he lit the candles distributed unevenly across the room on every available surface. The door closed behind him with a soft noise. 

Hermione made a bee-line to where their research was piled up, then stopped abruptly, whirling around. He still stood by the door, shadowed dark eyes watching her. 

“Are you quite alright?” he asked when their gazes met. “This is a little unusual.”

She was thinking of their research. All those evenings, weeks,  _ weeks,  _ so many people looking for a solution and they’d never considered  _ this  _ possibility – this very real possibility, why had she not  _ thought  _ of it–

“Merlin woman, give me some sort of sign here whether I should be calling Madam Pomfrey. Are you upset? You do not  _ seem  _ upset, but you certainly do not seem to be in your right mind, either.”

He was fretting. Severus Snape, fretting over her, hands moving uselessly up and down in the air, eyes darting towards the window sill, where chocolates and a tissue box sat. 

“Will you  _ talk to me _ !” he burst out, and the obvious worry finally prompted Hermione to pull herself together. She took a deep breath. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just realised – well, first I realised something else,” she gestured to the side, her pulse and words sped up, each falling over itself, coming faster and faster, “but the point is, I came, as I came down here to talk to you about that I realised the  _ other thing,  _ which is – I think it wore off.”

Severus stared at her. “Do you think you are making sense?”

He was in his pyjamas, she realised. A t-shirt, not as soft as the one in her dream, and dark grey instead of green, and warm-looking black flannel trousers. His feet were bare. She stared at his toes. He twitched them involuntarily when he caught her looking and her gaze flew up again, hands gesticulating in the general direction of their research on the various desks. 

“The curse! The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Marietta really isn’t that smart about dark arts, is she? She’s not even bad, she’s just weak-minded, she probably didn’t even lock the curse properly – we’ve been looking at  _ locked  _ ones, do you not see? It isn’t, it’s more like – well, a jinx, really. A pretty bad, powerful, long-lasting jinx, but it  _ wore off. _ ”

He was growing irritable, arms crossed against the cold. “ _ What  _ wore off?”

She shot a fire spell at the hearth. Soft crackling filled the room, along with gentle orange light and a steady warmth. Severus relaxed ever so slightly.

“The  _ curse _ ! I’m cured, we don’t have to research anymore.”

He stared at her, apparently not comprehending.

“You’re kind of adorably slow in the morning, has anyone ever told you that?” she said before she thought better of it. 

“As a matter of fact, no,” he said, taking a careful step onto the lush rug. “I don’t believe anyone has. And this is by no stretch of the imagination  _ morning _ .”

“4am is morning.” 

“It’s dark and I sleep. It’s night.”

“That’s a bit of a fraught definition,” Hermione started, only to be interrupted by him: “You say the curse is broken?”

She huffed. “Not broken,  _ worn off _ .”

He waved it away as if it didn’t matter, and she assumed that it didn’t matter to him at 4am in the night. “Either way, gone?”

Suddenly, relief slammed into Hermione. She found herself laughing. “Yes! Gone. I’m feeling again.”

He stepped towards her quickly, freezing only a step from her. “You are  _ sure _ .”

She nodded. It caused her hair to bob weirdly, and she reached upwards to find her bun had slipped over night and devolved into a sort of half-hairstyle. She frowned at it, but before she could tease the hair tie free from her tangled curls, Severus’ hand reached past her to the back of her head and freed her hair with a few precise tugs. 

Her hair tumbled over her back. It felt indecent, somehow, as if he had undressed her. The thought sent heat racing to her cheeks. 

“Here,” he murmured, presenting the tie to her, carefully held between his thumb and index finger. She plucked it from his hold, swallowing heavily. 

“Congratulations then,” he continued in the same soft murmur. He also didn’t step back. From this close up, his scent was stronger, and Hermione fought the instinct to come even closer. 

“Thank you.”

Somehow, just like that, they ran out of things to say. Why  _ was  _ she in his chambers at 4 o’clock in the morning? In the firelight, under his strong gaze, it suddenly felt ridiculous. What did she think she was accomplishing by rushing all the way here? Was she  _ sure  _ this was even what he wanted? After all, even if her conclusions were correct, he hadn’t really  _ acted  _ on any of it so far, and he’d had plenty of opportunities. Hadn’t he?

_ Well,  _ Hermione reminded herself,  _ he also kind of thought you were incapable of feeling and in need of his help.  _

Bounds of duty which, she suddenly realised, had just snapped and fallen to the floor. 

“Well,” she said after quite some time had passed. She felt jittery. At least now she knew why, though it was a cold comfort with his eyes and his scent and his hands and his bare arms and feet just…  _ there.  _ “I should go. It’s. Well. Early.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said. He didn’t move. 

Hermione swallowed again. “Okay,” she said, and it came out whispery and weak. “Okay,” she repeated more strongly. Carefully, she inched around him. He turned, his eyes following her, but he didn’t stop her. 

She had almost reached the door when he spoke up. 

“Hermione.”

Hermione stumbled on the doorstep and had to catch herself on the doorframe. She turned around slowly, feeling jerky, like a rusty machine. “Yes?”

He had stepped a little closer again, but it was still a respectable distance. Nobody would think anything off about it if they found them standing together like this – apart from how neither of them were dressed properly. And the first name. And the fact that it was 4 in the sodding morning.

On second thought, this situation was nothing if not suggestive. 

“You said you realised the curse had worn off after you’d already come down here to talk to me about something else.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her chest. “I did?”

He glided closer, as smoothly as if he was floating. She looked down – no, feet on the ground. How did he  _ move  _ like that? 

He had really long, pale toes. His feet were a little bony, but almost pretty. His skin was so pale that she could see all his veins shining through, a gentle blue. She wondered if he tanned. She wondered if she could convince him to go sunbathing with her. 

“Yes,” he said, “you did.”

He stopped in front of her.  _ This  _ was barely a respectable distance. The difference between the cold air of the corridor and the heat of the room made her shiver. 

“Care to elaborate?”

She felt, suddenly, as if she was in danger. A sort of pleasant danger, and immediately she scolded herself for being ridiculous. 

“Ah,” she murmured. “I forgot.”

His hand came up to brace him against the top of the doorframe. It left him leaning forwards, looming over her. She ducked her head. Her hair fell forward into her face. Before she could register what was happening, he had tucked the strands behind her ear with his free hand. 

There was a very,  _ very  _ strange feeling in her lower belly. 

“I see,” he whispered, almost inaudible. 

She stared at him, feeling pleasantly breathless. He made no movement to come towards her, but he wasn’t closing the door either. 

“You wanted to leave, didn’t you?”

Did she? Hermione was feeling very muddled. She had no idea what she wanted. Her feet were icy, her face was hot. She wanted her hair to fall back into her face so he could tuck it away again. She wanted to know if that scar she spied on his upper arm, peeking out from his sleeve, went all the way across his shoulder. She wanted to know – to know a lot of things, to be sure. She wanted, very much, for something she could barely define. 

She did not want, she realised, for all of this to shatter with the break of the day. She had to, somehow, make this fragile thing sturdy before then. 

But how, when she couldn’t feel her own knees? 

Severus was still looking at her. “You know what I love about Gryffindors?” he said, apropos of nothing, making her stomach drop down through the stones at that word.  _ Love.  _

“What?” she croaked.

He was smirking. Or was that a smile? “They are so very full of bluster and bravado in the heat of the moment, but when you’re counting on them to be just what their house promises, they waste all that time with gathering their courage instead of  _ acting _ .”

The insult hit before the insinuation could. “Well  _ excuse me _ ,” Hermione found herself snapping, “this is a pretty nerve-wracking moment, and I’m going off very slight hints here.”

“Oh no,” he mocked her, “was I too subtle for you? Poor brilliant Hermione Granger, you’d miss a bludger if it was heading right for your face.”

Hermione puffed up like an offended cat. “Are you serious? You weren’t exactly  _ obvious. _ ”

Severus huffed a breath. “Wasn’t I? Everyone  _ else  _ has certainly cottoned on.”

Hermione’s jaw swung shut with a click. He wasn’t wrong. She found herself staring at her bare feet, drawing nonsense patterns onto the beaten-down stone floor of the doorway with her big toe. “Well. I was busy being cursed.”

His voice, when it came, was warm with amusement. “You are excused.”

He watched her watch her foot. After a few more seconds, he sighed heavily and pushed away from the doorframe to step back. “Now, what will it be? In or out.  _ I’m  _ going back to bed, considering  _ someone  _ woke me up at arse o’clock.”

Hermione looked up. He was suddenly too much – all dark warmth, large hands, intense eyes. Her gaze slid past him at the sitting room that had become home to her in these past weeks. “Where would I even go while you sleep?”

He looked at her with deliberant nonchalance. There was the air of embarrassment again, and echoing embarrassment rose in her. She pushed it away. 

“I certainly wouldn’t presume to dictate where you should spend your time. You are a grown woman, make your own decisions.” He managed to sound peeved despite the way his cheeks were flushing ever so slightly, barely noticeable in the low light.

Hermione pointed past him at the bedroom door. “So that’s on the table.”

Severus seemed to deflate in front of her, shedding a coat of protection she didn’t even know he had worn. It left him seeming smaller, more human. Very much like a man. The feverish feeling was back, hot and insistent. 

“I thought I’d made myself clear,” he said, eyes fixed on her. “If you’re asking about my interests – everything is on the table.”

Hermione had nothing to say to that. Her mouth was dry. She stepped into the room carefully. The door clicked shut behind her. In the flickering firelight, it all seemed so surreal. 

He turned towards the bedroom.

“I talk sometimes,” she found herself saying, feet following him as if on autopilot.

He turned back and looked at her over his shoulder. “Sometimes?”

“In my sleep, I mean.”

His bedroom was dark, only a single sconce lighting it. Heavy curtains kept out the ever so slight murky green glow of the lake. There were no paintings, but there were some muggle novels stacked on the nightstand. 

He saw her looking. 

“You cottoned on to my snooping,” he said, “I had to find another way to know what would happen ahead of time.”

Hermione’s disbelieving laugh was cut short by his lips. They were warm. He smelled like peppermint and sleep. 

There was an indefinable feeling rushing through Hermione. Her arms twined up around his neck. His hands were on the small of her back, pressing ever so gently. They were so warm. Everything was so warm.

When he retreated, she opened her eyes. Had she shut them? She couldn’t remember. She breathed in deeply, feeling like she’d held her breath. She probably had, come to think of it.

He was close, so close. He darted in, very quickly, for a second kiss, a soft little thing against her lips, then he stepped back. 

“Now. We’re not so absurd as to be wide awake at this time of night. If you’re intending to get anything more out of me, I suggest that you pick a decent time for it next time.”

He slipped beneath the already rumpled duvet and took his wand out from under his pillow. A second one, just as green and fluffy looking as the first, popped into existence. Hermione found herself drawn to the bed as if it were exerting a summoning charm on her. “Oh I don’t know,” she said without thinking about it, “I feel like that worked pretty well for me this time.”

Severus’ eyes slid open just wide enough to glare at her. “Don’t you dare. I’m not above taking points from your house.” 

Hermione smiled helplessly and stabbed at her pillow with her wand. It turned into that beautiful burgundy colour she had grown to appreciate over her time in the dormitory. As she settled in bed next to Severus, throwing out her slippers as an afterthought and putting her painkiller on the floor gently, he opened one eye. 

“Is that  _ red _ ,” he muttered, sounding already half-asleep. “Why are you like this. What have I done?”

Hermione’s silent laughter shook the bed. She curled up on her side, facing him, tucking her wand beneath the pillow. “You can always throw me out.”

He huffed, eyes closed. His arm snaked free of the duvet and settled heavily on her waist. “I will, just watch me.”

She fell asleep with his fingers drawing soft patterns over her back. 

She awoke alone. 

For a second, she was worried. His side of the bed was cold, and there was no note.

As she went upstairs, she peered around every corner, terrified to meet someone who’d question her slinking out of the dungeons in her nightgown on a Friday morning. She didn’t know why she bothered; the portraits were all hopeless gossipers, and they all thought they were shagging anyway. 

_ Shagging _ , she thought, her face fiery red.  _ If everything is on the table, that means– _

She banned that thought, knowing it would drive her to distraction otherwise. Instead, she focused on her shower, on dressing for the day, on the question of why Severus was nowhere to be found when she’d woken up. 

By the time she joined him at breakfast, a full hour later than they usually met, Professor Sprout having dutifully left the chair next to him left free, she was pretty sure she’d figured it out.

Severus’ considerable nose was bent deeply over his oatmeal, a large mug of coffee next to him steaming away. As she approached, Professor Sprout looked up and smiled at her. There was dirt on her face and a twig on the brim of her hat. It waved a small, leafy arm at Hermione and she waved back. 

“Good morning, Hermione!” Professor Sprout exclaimed. “Late today, too? I just asked dear Severus where you’d gone, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

_ Dear Severus  _ next to her simply grunted. Professor Sprout did not let it deter her. She turned to decimate the rest of her toast, smiling all the while. 

“Good morning,” Hermione said, trying to sound as calm as she could. Severus still wasn’t looking at her, but he did levitate over the small basket of croissants and the strawberry marmalade. 

“Thank you,” she said and plucked them out of the air. She carefully picked her croissant and halved it with precise, practised cuts. 

“You needn’t have worried, you know,” she whispered to Severus while Professor Sprout was striking up a conversation with Nearly Headless Nick about the potato harvest of the year and her plans to distill her own vodka. “I told you the curse had worn off. I felt exactly the same when you were gone.”

Severus next to her seemed to tense even more. “It was a concern.”

Hermione leant forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes. They were hidden behind his hair. She put a hand on his thigh and his scandalized gaze rose to her face. 

“Granger! What do you think you’re doing?” He hissed, barely audible. 

“You can’t possibly be getting shy  _ now _ ,” she hissed back. “Who was the tempter yesterday?”

The thigh under her palm was rigid. She stroked it with her thumb absentmindedly while Severus made a valiant attempt at navigating his spoon back into his bowl of porridge. “Well,  _ someone had to,  _ and you were taking your sweet time!” 

Hermione impatiently plucked his spoon from his grip and plunked it down into his porridge bowl. “I was  _ cursed _ , if you’d care to remember? Revenge attempt by incapable Ravenclaw? You got caught in the crossfire because you attempted to jump in to save me from that curse? I was going to ask about that, what  _ were  _ you thinking–”

Severus took his spoon back with a vengeance, splashing porridge onto the table in the process. “Well, you’re not cursed  _ now, _ ” he returned, sounding sulky.

“Exactly my point!” Hermione exclaimed, slathering some jam onto her croissant with vicious strokes. “So I really don’t see what you’re suddenly so hung up about!”

“Is it really so difficult to believe,” Severus retorted, stabbing at the oatmeal splotches with his wand, which sucked them in violently, “that a man might have reservations about a smart, capable young witch almost twenty years his junior suddenly deciding–”

“Who said  _ anything  _ about sudden! I’ve been feeling like this for a while!”

He looked at her, eyes wide. His spoon was floating in mid-air, staying there even as his hand sunk down to his lap. A glob of oatmeal hung threateningly from the bottom of the spoon. “You have?”

Hermione felt herself deflate. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

Severus twitched towards her but stayed sitting. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Uhm,” Professor Sprout’s voice came from somewhere behind Severus, “I hate to interrupt really, but I just thought I would, in case you forgot you had an audience.”

Severus closed his eyes with a pained grimace. Hermione sighed. 

“Thank you, Professor Sprout.”

“Pomona, dearie,” she smiled meaningfully at both of them. “I  _ am  _ so glad you two worked it out. It is so good to see Severus settled with a girlfriend, finally! You know, I did think he was gay for a while there, not that there’s anything wrong with that–”

“Yes,  _ thank you Pomona. _ ” 

Hermione was caught somewhere between laughter and the impulse to hide beneath the table and never come out again. On her other side, Professors McGonagall and Vector were trying very hard to pretend that they had suddenly become deaf and noticed nothing but their breakfast. 

When Professor Flitwick came into the hall, a spring in his step, stopped at the general tableau of awkwardness he was presented with and asked “Did I miss something?” Hermione decided she was done.

“If you would excuse me,” she muttered and pushed her chair back. She guessed she was lucky the other students staying over did not usually get up at this time, but it was a cold comfort.

She hurried out of the hall. No matter how far she went from Severus, ten yards, twenty, thirty, forty – the feeling of embarrassment stayed. If anything, it only got stronger. 

At the very end of the Great Hall, she turned back to him. He was frozen at the head table, watching her. 

She grinned. She saw him tense at the further embarrassment she was about to subject him to. “Severus! You coming?”

She saw him take in her face – the bright grin that showed no sign of abating. Her eyes, presumably, maybe her hands, which betrayed her nerves with their need to flutter about uselessly, and which were intertwined tightly in front of her to prevent precisely such a thing. 

Wordlessly, he stood up, grabbed his mug, and swept out of the hall after her. She turned and, suppressing the childishly gleeful urge to run, went towards the dungeons. 

“You owe me for that,” he grumbled when he caught up to her on the stairs. “I can bloody well hear the gossip already.”

“Oh, grow up,” she replied cheerfully and pried one of his hands off his coffee cup so she could hold it. His fingers closed around hers with a gentleness entirely at odds with the stern frown on his face. 

“We will have to talk about rules of conduct. For when the students return.” 

She sighed and stopped. It forced him to a standstill, and for a second, she watched him balance the mug so it didn’t spill. Then, he looked down at her.

“We will talk about it,” Hermione said. She looked down at their joined hands – hers were smaller, tanner, rounder. She liked the contrast. As she watched, Severus moved his thumb over hers in an inquisitive caress. “For now, I’d like to enjoy where we’re at, alright?”

He softened, somehow. It was in his air more than his face, but she noticed, nevertheless. “Alright.”

She found herself smiling. “Good.”

He pointed a stern finger at her. “But don’t get cursed again!  I read so many ancient texts, I dreamt in Greek for a week.”

She laughed. “Okay, your turn to be cursed. C’mon, I want to know how my book ends.”

“I am already cursed,” he lamented dramatically and let her tug him along. She looked back over her shoulder and found him watching her over the rim of his coffee mug. 

“You created this situation yourself, don’t whine.”

He yanked at their joined hands until she had stumbled close enough that his face was so close to hers, she could smell the coffee on his breath. He untangled their hands and gently tilted her chin up. He kissed her, softly, gently, lingering. 

Hermione’s heart raced. They stood there, a small eternity only punctuated by quiet breaths and very little sighs.

He retreated finally, much too soon. She opened her eyes slowly, finding him looking at her like – like she was something unreal, precious, impossible. 

“The murderer was the ex-husband,” he whispered gently. “He used the toy axe they got the child on his birthday, in chapter two.”

He was gone in a swirl of robes. The tickling curse Hermione sent after him bounced harmlessly off the dungeon walls. 

“You’ll have to learn to aim better if you want to live with that man,” a nearby portrait commented sternly, his sizable moustache muffling his deep voice.

“Trust me,” Hermione grinned, “I will.”


End file.
